


Nattmara

by wyoheartsmusic



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fairy Tale Elements, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mystical Creatures, Non-Graphic Violence, Prince!Even, Scandinavian Folklore - Freeform, poor innocent Magnus has not been hurt in the process of writing this story I promise haha, witch!Isak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 06:46:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14443653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyoheartsmusic/pseuds/wyoheartsmusic
Summary: The Prince of Næsheim has reached the end of a dangerous quest where he finds the Witch of Nattmara's Forest





	Nattmara

**Author's Note:**

> Hii!!
> 
> I'm currently doing a little fun challenge with my angel [Mikki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skamzombie/pseuds/Skamzombie) where we take a trope every day and we can only write 200 words for it - needless to say that both of us mosly need more than 200 words :D Anway, this time the trope was "magic au" and I had the idea for this. At first I wanted to finish it at 1k but then I was inspired for more and I desperately wanted to share this with you so here, have some 5k of magic that I hope you enjoy. I had a lot of fun writing it and researching a little about Scandinavian folklore (the names of the creatures and everything are taken from it but I took some liberty with my interpretation of everything.)  
> I also found two edits on tumblr that I think are awesome so check them out [here](http://julian-dahl.tumblr.com/post/173288250103/fvlklvre-nattmara-scandinavian-she-spirits-who) and [here](http://julian-dahl.tumblr.com/post/173288356023/fvlklvre-heks-witches-of-scandinavian-folklore) if you like <3

He’s made it. After days, maybe weeks spent wandering Nattmara’s Forest, appropriately ridden by nightmares at night that seeped into his conscience during the day until he couldn’t tell night from day anymore.

He almost fell victim to a Skogsrå and lost his sword several days ago in a fight with a troll.

His limbs are aching and he has cuts and bruises everywhere from the forest trying to defeat him. But the desire is still blazing in his chest so he keeps going, keeps fighting, doesn’t give up.

And now he’s standing in front of the little cottage, overgrown with moss and vines and integrating itself into its surroundings that he almost missed it. Has maybe missed it before and has just been walking in circles this whole time.

His heart is flaring but he hesitates. His hands go to his pockets, making sure the tobacco and all the riches he could afford are still there. He’ll pay the price, no matter how high, for the witch to do him this one favour.

Suddenly the eerily quiet air is disrupted by a deep, resounding voice that startles him into stumbling, tripping over some roots and falling to the ground. “The Prince of Næsheim, I was expecting you.” A gust of air blows the door open, an invitation, but he remains on the ground, his heart pounding and eyes wide on the darkness beyond the door, the bodiless voice.

“Come inside, young prince,” The voice demands and it’s so different from what he imagined it to be like. In the stories he’s been told, it’s always been an old female witch, cackling and voice brittle but this one sounds young and vibrant.

When he doesn’t make a move to get up and follow the witch’s request, the forest behind him starts crackling and a tight grip around his arms pulls him up and pushes him toward the cottage. A look down reveals that it’s the forest itself holding him hostage.

And then releases him.

He stumbles forward, looking over his shoulders to see the tree branches retreating again and then the door slams shut and he’s engulfed by darkness.

Once his eyes get used to the dim lighting, it doesn’t seem as dark anymore. There’s a fire burning in the corner and the ceiling is strung with jars that give off a flickering glow.

From the shadows, a dark figure emerges, wrapped in a black cloak with the hood covering their face. The witch roams around the room, picking up vessels that he can only imagine what might be in there and adds them to the large cauldron bubbling on the fireplace. “It’s not often that I get royal visitors — without companions too. Speak, young prince, what brings you here.”

In the Kingdom of Næsheim, Nattmara’s Forest is known for housing all kinds of dangerous, magical creatures and there’s yet to be a human coming out of it unscathed so it was the only sensible thing for him to not bring an entourage because he didn’t want to endanger them. This was not an act of bravery on his part, it was simply worry for the well-being of his subjects.

“My sister,” He whispers, looking at the ground as he feels the emptiness gripping at him again.

The witch stops in their movements and hums in acknowledgement. Then they busy themselves with picking up ingredients again and after stirring the brew for a while, they fill it in a mug.

He panics, the long silence making him fear for rejection. He scrambles for the things he brought. “I have gifts. For you. In exchange for your favour,” He exclaims desperately, stretching out his hands with the tobacco and coins.

The witch completely disregards the gifts and a moment later, a gust of wind blows them out of his hands and before he can scramble for them, the witch presses the mug with the potion into his hands. “Drink.”

“Your gifts,” He whispers brokenly, slowly losing hope.

“I don’t want your gifts,” The witch replies brusquely, “Now drink.” Pale, long fingers appear from the cloak, the crook of them making the mug raise to his lips.

He splutters on the bitter brew but after he’s swallowed all of it and the mug falls to the ground with a clatter, he feels a warm feeling rush through him. His body starts hurting less and the ugly gash on his left forearm slowly vanishes.

The witch’s touch to his healed skin is unexpected but warm and gentle. And there’s a sudden longing in him to find out what the witch looks like. “What’s your name, young prince?”

“Even,” He whispers, eyes fixating on the fingers still lingering on his arm.

“Even,” The witch repeats, retracting their hand. “I can’t help you.” They walk over to the fireplace again, bottles swooshing through the air with a nod of the witch’s head and the potion filling itself into them.

All Even feels though is the hollow disappointment of those words in his chest. And then anger. “I fought for my life in the forest just to get here! I brought gifts! I did everything I was supposed to do!” He yells, tears welling up in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” The witch murmurs and if Even weren’t so upset, he would have heard that the witch really feels that way. “You fought for your life and so did the Princess of Næsheim. You survived,” The witch pushes off the hood of the cloak, revealing a halo of golden curls. He looks nothing like the witches Even has heard of in stories. There are no warts on his face and his nose isn’t long. He’s not an old woman but a young boy not much older or younger than Even himself. His eyes are forest green and filled with sorrow. “The Princess of Næsheim is dead, Even,” He whispers and he just so manages to grab Even’s shoulders and hold him upright before he breaks down.

“No,” Even croaks, tears streaming down his face, “I don’t believe you. It’s only been a few days! She’s not dead! I don’t believe you!” He barely feels the soft material of the cloak his face is being pressed into as he sobs helplessly, gentle fingers carding through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” The witch repeats.

“No!” Even exclaims, pushing away from the comfort he’s momentarily felt, “You’re lying! This is just another nightmare Nattmara put on me!”

He shakes his head. “Nattmara doesn’t have the power to put me in her dreams. I’m sorry, Even, this is real,” He pulls Even to the cauldron and with a twist of his wrist, it fills with water and a picture appears on the surface.

It shows the royal castle decked with black flags and then the picture changes to the King and Queen, lying in each other’s arms and crying, next to them an opened casket with Ella lying in it. She looks serene, not like Even last saw her when she was thrashing around, possessed by some evil spirit. Now she just seems peacefully asleep.

There’s another casket, closed, that Even can’t make sense of.

The witch, seemingly noticing his straying eyes, explains quietly, “It’s been 21 weeks since you left the castle on this quest, Even. The Kingdom of Næsheim has lost both their royal children.”

“No,” Even says again, but it’s weaker this time. He slumps against the witch, “I’m right here! I’m not dead!”

“Drink this,” The witch holds another potion to Even’s lips suddenly. It smells sweet and alluring and Even isn’t strong enough to fight it, swallowing all of it in a few seconds. He feels his limbs grow heavy and darkness envelop him.

The last thing he sees is the sparkling green of the witch’s eyes.

 

When he wakes up again, it’s with a bolt and a terrified, “Ella!” leaving his lips. His breathing is accelerated and his eyes flit around the unfamiliar room until he feels a soft touch to his knee. He looks down at the pale fingers and then up at the gentle eyes studying him. He recoils.

The witch furrows his brow and folds his hands in his lap. “Ella,” He says hesitantly, “Is that your sister’s name?”

Even nods slowly, feeling darkness leech on his insides. He doesn’t want to think about his sister and what happened to her. “What did you give me? How long was I knocked out?”

“Even, I did not poison or hex you or whatever. I mean no harm. But you wandered Nattmara’s Forest for five months without proper food, it’s a surprise you even made it here still standing on your feet. I gave you an elixir to get you back to strength. And you needed it… you were out of it for five days,” The witch explains, “How do you feel?”

Even falls back against the pillows in his back, trying to control his breathing. As little as he knows about the witch, he trusts him — because he’s still alive when he’s been completely defenceless for the past couple days. “What’s your name?” Even asks instead of giving an answer.

The witch huffs, the glint in his incredibly green eyes almost amused. “I can’t tell you that, Even.” As much as he has a proclivity for Even’s name, he’s set on not disclosing his own.

Even gets it, he’s heard enough stories of witches and how important their name is, how much power it gives to the person who knows it. He’s still disappointed. 

And then it slowly settles in: he’s feeling well-rested, his whole body doesn’t ache anymore with every breath he takes and his head isn’t pounding anymore, nightmares aren’t slithering through his braincells anymore. In fact, he realises that he hasn’t had a bad dream like the ones that haunted him in the forest at all. Instead, there was soft colours and laughter, Ella running through the castle’s gardens, full of life and love. It was Even’s laughter, foreign now that he hasn’t laughed in so long.

Even misses his sister with a viciousness that knocks the breath out of him, making him keen over.

As if reading his thoughts — and Even has an inkling that that might as well have been the case — the witch rubs a hand over his back in a comforting gesture and whispers, “I know what it’s like to lose someone. I’m really sorry that you have to go through this.”

Even shakes his head. He can’t imagine anyone feeling like he does right now, and yet, it gives him some comfort. “What happened?” He asks quietly, closing his eyes as he focuses on his breathing and the witch’s touch.

The cottage is filled with silence for a long time before Even gets a reply. “She wasn’t my biological sister but I loved— love her as if she was. Amalie,” He sighs, a sad smile grazing his lips, “We almost didn’t meet, she and I. She was a witch like me but she had the misfortune of having a pair of crazy brothers. The sons of Magnus.”

Even’s eyes fly back open as he stares at the witch with wide eyes. “Nikolai and William,” He breathes, having heard all the horror stories. 

Years before Even’s birth, the Kingdom of Næsheim was infiltrated and defeated by the neighbouring kingdom and its King Magnus. While the aged king lost his life in battle with so many others, including the King and Queen of Næsheim — Even’s great-grandparents — his sons came out of it alive and so the tyranny of Nikolai the Brutal began, plunging the Kingdom of Næsheim into fear and terror for years.

Sixteen long years later, it came to light that one of the kitchen maids, Sonja, had saved the royal couple’s offspring and in the commotion of the battle had managed to sneak her out of the castle and to the village she had been born in. The heiress to the throne could grow up in peace before she returned to the Kingdom of Næsheim to reclaim the throne in an epic battle that ended with a giant dragon attacking the castle and killing the sons of Magnus.

The following years saw the new Queen rebuilding the castle and the peace and former wealth returned to the Kingdom of Næsheim.

“Nikolai and William,” the witch confirms, anger ringing in his voice, “They took advantage of Amalie and since they obviously knew her name, she couldn’t disobey them. With her power on their side, Magnus and his sons could overthrow the King and Queen of Næsheim in the first place. And with her, they stayed in power.” A shiver runs through him and this time, it is on Even to give him comfort as he places his hand on his knee. The witch continues, “They kept Amalie hidden away, no one knew about her, and she lived a miserable life, at the mercy of her brothers. They used her until she was only a shadow of herself, weak and — to them — useless. She couldn’t perform magic anymore so they looked for a new source of power. And they found it. _Me_.”

Even shudders, he’s not sure he even wants to hear where this story is going. It’s already causing him pain. He hates how, just like was intended by the tyrants, none of the stories he’s heard of the Dark Years of Næsheim, that poor girl has never been mentioned.“You?” He croaks.

The witch grimaces. “I’ve been tricked by the brothers. I don’t know how they heard of my existence but somehow, William found me here, standing on my doorstep much like you did. It’s taken him considerably less time than you to get here and I can only imagine that he’s made a pact with a troll for safe passage through the forest — or that his soul is darker than even Nattmara’s so he didn’t lose his mind.”

Even’s breathing hitches and a shudder runs through him. He wants to make a comment how he hasn’t lost his mind either during the last five months and he decidedly hasn’t had a pact with anyone — then again, maybe he’s lost his mind a long time before entering Nattmara’s Forest.

Smiling softly at him, the witch murmurs, “I’ve never encountered a mind as strong as yours. It’s truly incredible that you’ve made it here mostly unscathed.” He shakes his head, seemingly in awe, before going back to his story, “So he came here, saying he has a favour to ask of me and he brought gifts and I let him stay a couple of days because travelling here must have been exhausting and he was nice and I trusted him — and I told him my name.”

Even squeezes his knee and feels his stomach sinking.

“He took me back to the castle and locked me up with Amalie. I tried to save her, I really did,” There’s a single tear sliding down the witch’s cheek and Even’s eyes follow its trail down mesmerised, “But all I could do was give her a couple days longer, which, from a selfish perspective I shouldn’t have done, because I got to know her, got to love her and then lost her. She died in my arms and I held her until they forcefully took her from me. And then I was their on call witch for several years more.”

Imagining the witch in a small cell, slowly drained of his energy makes Even shiver; he wants to get the picture out of his head and never think about it again. “How—“ He can’t even get the words out.

But like before, the witch just gets him. “The people of Næsheim, after years and years of oppression started rebelling, there were more and more riots. And Nikolai and William used me to find the leaders of those rebellions and imprison them or kill them but the people were relentless. So they asked me to give them a look into their future, a confirmation that they’re still as powerful as ever — but all I could give them was a prophecy of the rightful heiress taking back the throne and annihilating the terror reign of Magnussons. Needless to say, they were not impressed.” He chuckles sadly, taking his hand from where his thumb drew patterns into the skin of the back of Even’s neck to flick his wrist.

It takes Even a moment to realise what the motion was for. The witch has scooted away from Even, gnawing on his bottom lip, awaiting Even’s reaction. 

Even gasps when his eyes settle on the chemical burn across the witch’s left cheek to his ear and down over his jaw to his neck. “I’m—“ Tears spring to his eyes and he cups the witch’s face in his hands, his thumb gingerly brushing over the scarred tissue.

“Nikolai used one of my own poisonous potions against me, irreparably marking me. It took me years to master the spell to cover myself,” The witch whispers, twitching as if he’s torn between pulling away from Even’s gentle touch or leaning into it.

Even shakes his head, blurting out, “You don’t need to hide. You’re beautiful as you are.”

He laughs quietly. “Even, you’re really sweet. It’s not like I get a lot of visitors anyway, I make sure of that after what happened with William. In fact, you’re the first since him. Like I said, you have a strong mind.” He turns his head a little to brush his lips against Even’s hand.

Even feels his heart speed up, whispering, “I don’t have a strong mind.”

“You don’t even know,” The witch replies with a smile. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment before he shakes himself out of it, clearing his throat, “My anger allowed me to escape. I came back here and almost despaired over finding a solution to cover the scar the potion had left behind. And I swore revenge. Which I got when I found out that the heiress was gearing up and assembling troops to storm the castle. I offered her my services.”

It dawns on Even all of a sudden, “ _You_ were responsible for the dragon!”

“I _was_ the dragon.”

Even’s jaw drops. “That is so cool,” He knows he probably sounds ridiculous but he’s speechless. He starts waving his hands around excitedly, trying to find words, “You’re like the saviour of Næsheim!” And then he jumps up, getting all these ideas, “You should have that as a title! Saviour of Næsheim! It’s not an official title but—“ He smiles broadly at the witch, “I am the prince! I am Prince Even of Næsheim! I can just invent the title and— and then you’ll get it! You can live in the castle if you want or if you don’t, that’s okay too but with the royal power I have, I’ll make sure you — or any other witch — will never again have to face anything like Amalie a—“

The witch got on his feet as well and grabs Even’s wrists. “Slow down,” He urges softly, “Even, hey, breathe. I don’t need any of that, Even. Hell, I don’t _want_ it.”

Even deflates and he _can’t_ breathe suddenly because realisation hits him. “You gotta take _something_ from me, I need you to save her,” His voice breaks on the last word.

Arms wrap him in a tight hug as Even crumbles. “She’s _dead_ , Even. I can’t do anything as much as I’d like to. I am so sorry,” The witch mumbles into his hair, rubbing his hands over his back soothingly.

Even sobs against the witch’s neck, taking his time to calm down before he slumps down in a seat and the witch suggests, “Let’s eat something, okay? You probably need it.”

They sit in silence, eating some hearty stew that Even isn’t sure if he just conjured or if he actually cooked it. Even’s not sure how that stuff works.

“Do you want to go back home?” The witch asks eventually, putting his emptied bowl on the table.

Even doesn’t hesitate to nod. His parents have gone through enough already, if at least Even came back… “Yes, I do. I _need_ to,” He says fervently, fully aware that he’s setting himself up to wandering the forest again for another 21 weeks or longer, losing his mind for good probably if Nattmara tortured him with only one more nightmare. But he has to see his parents again.

The witch nods, lost in thought, his fingers tapping against the table surface. “I can help you with that,” He decides, meeting Even’s curious gaze.

“How?”

He walks over to a cabinet full of bottles and jars, his lips forming the names they have on the labels and every now and then, he stops for a second, thinking about something before going back to studying the ingredients.

Even can’t help but watch him, mesmerised by the graceful way he moves and how his face scrunches up cutely when he considers one ingredient or the other. He’s so fascinated by the witch that he almost forgets that he still owes him an answer, startling a little when he gets it.

“I can make you an amulet that will keep Nattmara away from you,” The witch reveals turning to him with a furrowed brow. “But,” He sighs, “It will take some time. The potion needs to brew for five days and has to be finished in the waning crescent of the moon and then the amulet has to rest in it until the full moon night. We just passed the waning crescent though.”

Even deflates but he concludes that he can wait a couple of weeks longer to get back to Næsheim if it means he doesn’t have to encounter Nattmara and her frightening powers.

 

The weeks drag. Even is on the edge of his seat to go back home and as much as he likes spending time with the witch and getting to know him (but never his name; that’s the one thing he never reveals), the urge to return to Næsheim and his mourning family is much bigger.

Then there’s the mourning itself of course. With each passing day, it settles in more that his sister is actually _gone_. He will never hear her laughter about a stupid joke he’s made or be able to card his fingers through her soft hair to comfort her or just because he wants to, he’ll never be able to watch her read a book by the fire or pick flowers in the gardens.

And whenever that hits him — _Ella is gone_ — the witch is right there to hold him and keep him from breaking down.

The witch doesn’t sleep. While Even takes the small bed, more often than not taking one of the witch’s magic remedies to fall asleep, the witch himself seems to never sleep. Even isn’t sure if he actually needs it or not but it worries him anyway: he’s always at the cauldron or crushing more ingredients in the mortar or disappearing for whole nights into the forest and coming back with more fresh ingredients.

It’s taking its toll. The witch’s face gets paler, almost ashen, and dark purple circles appear under his eyes so in the night before the waning crescent, when the first stage of making the amulet is nearly completed, Even lies in bed and murmurs, “Come lie with me for a moment.”

He doesn’t have much hope. The witch is bustling about and it seems like he’s even ignoring Even, going to add another ingredient to the potion. But he stops right before it drops in the brew, a sharp gasp leaving his lips. Even doesn’t understand a lot of what’s going on with that magic but he gets that the witch must have almost ruined the potion because he was inattentive. “Okay,” He croaks, gnawing on his bottom lip as he approaches the bed and Even scoots over to make room for him.

He stares up at the ceiling for a few minutes while Even lies next to him on his side, just watching him. Then he turns to his side as well, the tips of their noses almost touching since the bed doesn’t leave much more room than that.

Even’s eyes flicker to the scar on the witch’s face and then down to his lips. Even gulps, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. “Thank you,” He whispers, “I don’t think I’ve ever told you that. Thank you for everything.” Tentatively, he brushes his fingers against the witch’s cheek, memorising the gasp that leaves his lips when he leans in to press a soft kiss to where the bumpy tissue of the scar turns into smooth milky skin. “Can I hug you?” When he nods, Even pulls him in, wrapping his arms tightly around him and letting the witch bury his face against his neck. It feels nice to be the one giving for once.

They fall asleep tangled together and when Even wakes up, the witch is already awake. Even stays in bed watching him for a bit, noticing that he seems a lot more relaxed again. It puts a smile on his face — the witch does that to him sometimes, making him smile out of seemingly nowhere and it starts to feel normal again after not having done it for so long.

It scares him a little bit. That their time together is almost up. There’s still that desperation in him to return to Næsheim but at the same time — and it almost makes Even laugh at the irony of it — Nattmara’s Forest has become safety. The witch’s cottage is safety. He can pretend that the real world doesn’t exist and he can just look at the witch’s quiet smile whenever he adds something else to the potion and it does exactly what he knew it would. He does it a lot; smiling. In a place that’s only ever been angst-ridden for Even, the witch is such a bright figure who manages to give some of Even’s own light back to him.

The night of the full moon, the witch is crying. He took the amulet out of the potion and afterwards crawls into bed with Even and Even doesn’t say anything, he just wraps his arms around him and tries to give him the comfort he needs. A small part of him selfishly hopes he’s crying because Even will leave in the morning. He doesn’t say it.

As soon as the first shy rays of light break through the thick canopy of leaves, they’re on their feet, not talking about the witch’s breakdown or talking at all.

The witch takes the amulet from the shelf where he put it last night and Even walks over, curiously looking at it. A tinged golden linnorm coils around a pulsing green stone that seems to have absorbed the potion. It’s absolutely gorgeous and the dragon reminds him of the witch as does the stone that’s the colour of the forest, of _his eyes_.

Even carefully grazes his fingers against the metal, surprised to find it’s warm even after being on the shelf the whole night. “It’s beautiful,” He breathes, “How can I ever—“

The witch shakes his head, making it very clear that he isn’t expecting anything in return. He turns to face Even and it feels ceremonious how he lifts the amulet up and puts the chain it’s attached to over Even’s head. He fiddles around with the amulet until it’s lying properly against Even’s chest, his hand resting over it for a moment before he takes a step back. “You should go,” He whispers.

He’s right, of course, there’s no reason to linger when Even should use as much of the day as he can before night settles and Nattmara takes over. He’s protected now but there’s always the chance that the amulet won’t protect him completely — he doesn’t think that because he thinks the witch isn’t strong enough to cast such a strong defence, he just knows that Nattmara is extremely powerful. “Come with me,” Even blurts, wincing immediately after because he promised himself not to say that.

The witch gives him a crooked smile. “Go back to Næsheim and be the incredible prince your kingdom needs,” He says, completely ignoring Even’s plea, which Even isn’t sure if he’s upset about or glad for.

Even raises his hand to the witch’s cheek, brushing his thumb against the unblemished skin where he cast a spell on himself again. “Show me your face,” He mumbles, gravitating closer to him on his own accord.

“Even…”

Even is going to miss hearing the witch say his name. “You don’t have to hide from me,” Even promises, “When everything’s settled down, I’ll come back and we can—“

He’s smiling at Even as if he’s certain Even _won’t_ come back.

The spell lifts but Even barely feels the sudden bumpiness of the skin when he leans in and kisses the witch like he’s meant to for the better part that he’s been staying with him. Even smiles when the witch gasps against his lips, taken by surprise.

But he kisses back and that’s everything Even’s hoped for. 

When they break apart eventually, laughter is bubbling from his throat and it feels foreign and unusual after not having laughed in so many months but it also feels so incredibly right. “I will be back,” He murmurs again, bringing their foreheads together, relishing the closeness. Even thinks that this feeling alone could help him defeat Nattmara.

“Leave now,” The witch urges but his lips are pulled up in a smile of his own. He pecks Even’s lips shyly and Even has a hard time letting go of him.

When he eventually steps out of the cottage, the witch’s smile and his confession keeps him going, he keeps fighting and doesn’t give up until he reaches Næsheim again.

_“My name is Isak.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked it, let me know what you thought in the comments or at julian-dahl on tumblr <3


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